


Mirror, Mirror (ain’t fair at all remix)

by rivkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, M/M, Remix, rough sex (consensual)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/pseuds/rivkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, and their issues with abandonment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror (ain’t fair at all remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlguidejones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlguidejones/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Mirror, Mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/12744) by girlguidejones. 



“It’s abandoned,” Dean said, meaning that the place was safe, or safer anyway. They could do whatever they wanted, unobserved. Unhunted. This must have been how Lenore’s vampires felt, he thought. Well, minus the unslakable thirst for blood, and, truth be known, he and Sam had both been through phases like that, and Dean didn’t just mean that one time he was a vampire. Point being, the motel was theirs for the taking. It was far enough off the highway that it hadn’t even been vandalized much—a couple of the rooms showed signs of partying by the local kids, cigarette burns and crushed beer cans and not nearly enough condom wrappers given how much sex had probably been happening. But the back side, facing nothing but creepy forest, had been largely left alone, and so they hardly had to clean up at all in the room they picked.

And by ‘they’ Dean meant ‘Sam,’ since Dean busied himself getting the water running again. He couldn’t swing electricity, but they were getting used to that. Given a couple of hours, the tank would heat enough to give them at least lukewarm showers, and that was really the function of a cheap motel even in better times.

Now was not better times. All their cash was going to food and gas. They were stealing new rides on a regular basis, even though Dean made sure to pick ones with full tanks and, ideally, some indication that the owner was a total asshole, like a Nobama sticker. (Republicans, he got. Dicks, he didn’t like.) Housing was another unnecessary expense. It’s not like they’d ever stayed at places that had security cameras that weren’t fakes, but the people behind the counter at no-tells were just the types to watch the crime news, and it just wasn’t worth the risk when there was a recession on and plenty of empty buildings just waiting for an enterprising petty criminal like Dean. 

Sam, meanwhile, was running down his laptop battery with further searches for help against Leviathans. He was trying to find hunters now, on the theory that they needed to spread the word. Not too many Winchester fans in the remaining hunter population, but they still needed to warn anyone who’d listen. For himself, Dean was kind of hoping to turn up Roy and Walt again. That was one ass-whipping it’d be a pure pleasure to deliver; Dean wasn’t going to need any of his tricks from Hell to make those pissants whimper.

A bonus of the no-electricity plan was that eventually Sam would have to stop his websurfing. Sure, he had his books, and his brooding, but the odds were improved that he’d turn his attention to Dean.

Dean had just laid down the salt, including a circle in the middle of the floor for later—Sam had some idea about summoning a minor demon to see what Crowley was telling the foot soldiers about Leviathans—when Sam gave the sigh/shoulder-cracking combo that was his signal that he was done. The sun was still well above the horizon, but that wasn’t all that important. They took the chances at rest that they got.

This part could really go either way, and Dean knew that real men, men in healthy relationships or whatever, took action to get what they wanted. He’d even done that, admittedly with the help of Jack, Jose and Jim, once in a while during his year with Lisa and Ben. But Dean was pretty fucking certain that men in healthy relationships weren’t in them with their brothers, and also he didn’t want to set Sam off. He’d never had any evidence that his own actions could trigger a Hell flashback, but if Sam ever reacted to his touch by freezing up he thought that might just be enough guilt to flip him over into catatonic as well. So Sam always had to let him know; Dean never gave him any reason to think that Dean expected anything he didn’t want to give.

Dean brushed his teeth and got in the bed he’d claimed when they’d first arrived. It was no less fusty than the other one, but it was a little less saggy, which he hoped added to the appeal to Sam. Sam didn’t give any signals (but then he never did, cagey bastard), just performed his own vigorous brushing—because who wanted to face the constant threat of early and violent death while risking tooth decay?—and splashed around in the bathroom.

The first time hadn’t been in a nicer place, even though it had working lights. That motel had been worse because it was a place where Sam had gone a little crazy, the way he did post-soul-restoration. He’d shaken for half an hour straight and he hadn’t talked, not even when Dean had tried his most over-the-top insults, and finally the only thing Dean had been able to do—aside from cutting and running—was to get behind Sam on the crappy little bed and wrap his arms around him, trying to still him before he vibrated himself into pieces.

But Sam was a goddamned giant these days, and Dean hadn’t had the right position to keep him under control. He’d only got the necessary leverage by climbing on top of Sam, pinning him down, chest to chest and arms wrapped tight around Sam’s ginormous shoulders, his knees squeezing Sam’s thighs together. “Intimate” had been an understatement; he’d routinely fucked girls with less touching.

So there they’d been, panting into each other’s mouths, Sam’s eyes closed over whatever he was seeing in his flashback, and when Sam had started to come out of his trip down Hell lane, it had changed. Sometimes, Dean told himself that Sam had known what he was doing when he’d put his hand on the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him that last fraction of an inch closer. 

Dean told himself a lot of things.

Sam had reached for Dean and Dean had reached back. The time when he would’ve left Sam rather than do that to him was long past. There was no leaving Sam. He’d closed his eyes and pressed his face against Sam’s shoulder so that Sam wouldn’t misunderstand his tears (or maybe so Sam wouldn’t understand them) and he’d done the selfish, horrible thing that had felt better than anything else in his life. And if Sam not having any choices wasn’t exactly how Dean wanted the whole ‘don’t ever leave me again’ thing to work, well, at least he got Sam. Even Sam’s need to verify that Dean was human, which meant making sure that he could bleed and bruise, was fine by Dean. Sam’s marks of ownership were the only ones he’d ever welcomed.

Now, in this hideout to which they’d been forced by the latest set of all-knowing bad guys, he heard Sam shuffle out of the bathroom, then stop. Just from the sounds, Dean could tell that he was standing in front of the window, looking out maybe towards where the sun was starting to think about settting. Don’t stare at the sun, you’ll go blind, Dean wanted to warn; Winchesters had done dumber things.

“Come here,” Sam said, and Dean started. When he looked, Sam was nude: RoboSam’s ripped arms, Sam’s strong runner’s thighs, the curves of his back and ass, all on display to Dean; Sam was full frontal towards the sun like he was working on his tan. If he had to be crazy, at least he was crazy hot, Dean thought, then decided not to say so. Contrary to popular opinion, he had a brain/mouth filter, though Sam might debate the brain part.

“Dean,” Sam commanded, and Dean got up from the bed, still staring. He came up beside Sam, almost shoulder to shoulder. “I want to fuck you like this,” Sam said. “Please, Dean.” 

Dean didn’t need to be asked twice. Even if Dean wasn’t entirely clear on what ‘like this’ meant, he was down with it. Since that first time, they’d done it every way Dean knew and a few he hadn’t, except for face to face. Dean totally understood Sam’s limits. Sam had already seen too much.

It just so happened that what Sam meant this time was ‘in front of this open window,’ which was fine. Some people might’ve said that Dean wasn’t picky, but that would’ve been unfair. Dean just liked all the flavors Sam gave him.

Sam’s hands were confident on him, shoving him so he was braced against the windowsill at exactly the angle Sam wanted. Dean shivered under his touch, like always, leaned back into Sam and made noise when he couldn’t keep it in, grunts turning to moans when Sam’s long fingers pressed hard enough.

“Anyone could see us,” Sam murmured, almost dreamily, like it was part of what made him hot. Dean swallowed his own thought, not wanting to step on Sammy’s harmless kink: _But no one will_. The sun turned the outside world so bright that Dean might not have seen an observer even if one had shown up. He squinted and the lines of their stolen car blurred into something almost like the Impala. He missed her so bad: all the secrets that were theirs alone, and better for it, like their initials carved into her where not even Dad had ever known.

Sam tugged Dean’s T-shirt off, and the world went blurry gray for a moment, then back to blinding. He closed his eyes and craned his neck to catch Sam in a kiss, Sam’s mouth gentle on his even as Sam pushed Dean’s boxers off of his hips. Sam was fine with kissing, for a couple of minutes at least before he guided Dean in some other direction. It was kind of weird that Sam wanted an exhibitionist fantasy when he couldn’t look Dean in the eyes while they fucked, but if turn-ons made sense then Dean guessed they wouldn’t be turn-ons, so he didn’t let it worry him. 

They’d make quite a picture, Dean had to agree, framed in the window with Sam’s hands all over him, Sam’s shaggy head dipping as Sam’s teeth scraped against Dean’s neck. Sam’s arms thick with muscle, hands so big his thumbs could pull the cheeks of Dean’s ass apart even as his splayed index and ring fingers dented the flesh over Dean’s hipbones. Dean couldn’t have moved away, couldn’t have covered himself, even if he’d wanted; Sam was wrapped around him like ropes binding a sacrifice. Sam had taken the weight of Lucifer, and then the weight of the entire world (because what was the Pit but everything else bearing down on you until you were crushed, utterly?), and he was still here, dented a little maybe but so much stronger than Dean.

There was a time when Dean wouldn’t have associated pain with sex, and it wasn’t when an armchair psychologist would’ve thought. Before Hell, the post-hunt adrenalin had involved hard-ons, and often enough successful attempts to get those hard-ons matched up with someone else’s sexual preferences, no matter how bad he’d been smacked around during the hunt itself. So a little incidental pain as part of getting off was part of the deal. After Hell, Dean had pretty much thought of pain as the same thing as existing; the sex part got stuffed down deep. Even when he started fucking again, it was more about being careful not to hurt the other person.

But Sam’s touch took him right back to that other guy, the one who thought the worst thing that could’ve happened to him was his mom dying and his brother leaving and his dad disappearing. Sam’s fingers dug in hard enough that Dean’s skin would be leopard-spotted and Dean reacted like he’d just wrapped his mouth around Dean’s dick instead, arching back and groaning. Displaying himself for Sam’s invisible observers, and Sam’s hands tightened further in approval.

Sam was a hurricane, breaking apart every structure Dean had managed to build for himself. Sam was why Dean drank, and why he hated himself when he drank. Sam was responsible for letting Lucifer out of his cage and Sam was more screwed over than any sap since Job. Dean’s heart could grow three sizes and still not fit what he felt for Sam. Yeah, Dean wanted to save the world, but Sam was the only person in it that he could stand for more than a couple of days at a time. 

The press of Sam’s dick, thick and not quite slick enough, dissolved Dean’s already-random thoughts into static. The flash of sun off of a fender was a spike of heat when Sam thrust up; the small I-want noises Sam made were what must’ve startled a flock of birds off the powerlines as they flew across Dean’s vision. 

Dean bowed his head and dropped his shoulders, letting Sam get the perfect angle. He bit his lip so that he wouldn’t chant Sam’s name. He came when Sam’s fingers dug in so hard the nails drew blood, and Sam followed quickly after.

Sam managed to clean himself up and get his pajama pants on before he stumbled into his bed and closed his eyes, loose-limbed and almost instantly asleep. Dean watched long enough to make sure he wasn’t faking before doing the same thing. It was still early, but they could use the rest.

Dean got up with the sun the next morning, Sam amazingly still asleep. Dean was thinking they’d stick to abandoned, lightless motels forever if it got Sam this kind of rest. The bathroom was dimly lit, sunrise half losing the battle to get through the grimy window.

He rubbed his hand over his chin, thinking about whether he needed to shave. He could get by for another day before he went from rock star stubble to hobo near-beard, he decided. Good thing, too: he couldn’t see his face in the mirror over the sink because it was tilted down. The top had pulled free from the wall where it had been cheap-assedly fixed in by a single screw. Dean idly thought about fixing it—he’d need an anchor and a drill and it would take two minutes, max—but that was another life.

Even in the half-light, he could see the bruises on his skin, so clearly made by Sam’s fingers. Dean’s hands didn’t come close. No one else’s hands could have reached so far around him, into him. He rubbed a fingertip over one of the welts from Sam’s nails, let the red kiss of pain warm him a little.

“Dean?”

Dean didn’t jump. He turned in a manly but quick fashion.

Sam was staring at him quizzically, head tilted. Not worried, or not more than baseline, though Dean didn’t miss Sam’s quick check for all the places a bottle might be stored. Then Sam’s eyes dropped to where Dean’s hand was still touching his own belly, and Sam drew in a breath.

Dean knew that for all Sam’s he-man stuff, he didn’t really want to hurt anyone. Sam’s impulses towards violence were part of the hunting life he hated so much, carved into him instead of natural-born. Dean wanted to tell Sam that any way was fine with him, rough or gentle (if Sam could stand to do gentle with him, which seemed unlikely). But Dean was terrible at this shit, especially and always with Sam. The more he meant it, the more it would come out wrong: Sam would hear ‘you’re not a good person’ like there was some reverse-meaning curse on Dean’s words. _Dean_ didn’t much like being reminded of who and what he was, and the brother he was fucking needed a demonstration of Dean’s ability to screw things up even less.

“You okay?” Sam asked, meaning the bruises.

Dean nodded, and Sam eased himself around Dean, until his bare chest brushed against Dean’s bare back. He pushed Dean’s boxers down and put his hands on Dean’s hips, just where they’d been yesterday. Dean shuddered, and Sam breathed out what was almost a laugh. He shoved Dean, stumbling them both forward, until they were in front of the pedestal sink, a big ceramic thing that somebody who didn’t know shit about ghosts would probably have called ‘white as a ghost.’

Sam palmed the back of Dean’s left thigh, hitching his knee up on the edge of the sink. It was cool and would probably leave bruises of its own, but Dean obligingly gripped the sides and bent forward.

The mirror, tilted like it was, wouldn’t show him his face. Just his chest, anonymous except for the tattoo, and Sam’s bulk behind him, matching ink hidden by Dean’s body. Sam’s hand, looking just as big in the mirror, came around to grab Dean’s stiffening cock. Sam had spared a moment to lick his palm; his grip was just wet enough to feel good.

This wasn’t a slow morning fuck. Sam gave it to him hard enough that Dean could feel the sink shifting against the pipes and grout holding it in place. The mirror scraped against the taps, louder than the sound of Sam panting in his ear. Sam’s hands on his hips were slick with sweat. Sam was muttering something into Dean’s neck about losing or losing Dean and Dean couldn’t stand it: being the only thing Sam had left, the guy he picked over a bullet to the brain. Dean ducked his head, except he was already leaning so far forward that he bashed his forehead into the mirror, which reacted to this latest insult to its cheap-ass construction by coming completely loose. Dean had to shove both hands against it to keep it from falling and shattering on them. Sam would see it as a metaphor.

Flat against the wall now, the mirror showed the two of them again, Sam’s face over Dean’s shoulder. There was nothing outside this room, and nothing inside it but them. Sam was staring at their reflection, eyes wide and hungry, and then his face screwed up as he came, his hands clenching on the tender places on Dean’s hips.

Sam slumped against him for a couple of minutes, breathing hard. Dean kept the mirror from falling and enjoyed the feel of Sam against him, sweaty and shower-ready but also warm, his heart beating hard enough that Dean could feel it like his own.

“You need a hand?” Sam asked.

“I’m good,” Dean said, which was no worse a lie than usual.

Sam harrumphed skeptically. “Come on, I’ll blow you.”

Dean closed his eyes. “This fucking mirror—” he began, trying for the least awkward ‘we don’t actually want the building to fall down around us, it’s a lot less sexy than it sounds’ mid-fuck discussion possible.

But Sam made a soft, gut-punched sound and pulled back, leaving Dean’s skin exposed to the chilled air.

What the actual fuck? “Hey,” he said, looking back over his shoulder as he struggled not to lose his grip on the mirror, which was threatening to slide right out of his sweaty fingers and into the gap that had opened up between the sink and the wall due to Sam’s vigorous sex-godding. Sam was retreating out of the bathroom, hands up like Dean had just pulled a pistol out of thin air. “Hold it!” Dean yelled, and, amazingly, Sam listened, frozen in the doorway. Dean took the opportunity to wrestle the mirror into partial submission, managing to get his fingers around the frame and lower it to the ground next to the sink.

“Okay,” he said when that was done, rubbing his now-filthy hands together because he clearly didn’t have time to wash them for real. “I meant, this fucking mirror’s about to fall down and we’ll probably both lose an eye, because that’s just how we roll these days. But it sure seems like you heard something different.”

Sam looked like he was really regretting that, especially since at this point they were doing total emotional honesty as a sheer survival technique. Even Dean had eventually figured out that lying equalled death or a fate worse than for the brothers Winchester. Sam swallowed and made with the shifty eyes, as if he hoped that some bad guy would materialize out of the peeling wallpaper, which while not outside the realm of possibility was not going to deter Dean from his investigation. Even with all the muscle (and there was a lot) Sam seemed to shrink a little.

“I know you don’t like to have to see,” Sam said, which was not helpful at all. He was rubbing his palm against his thigh; Dean should be grateful he wasn’t drawing blood. “I know you’re giving me what you can. I should just stop asking, but I can’t. And last night you were—you went along with me, and I thought maybe you’d reached your limit.”

Okay, light slowly dawning. Dean wanted to smack himself, and then smack _Sam_ , because seriously, _Dean_ was somehow the emotional incompetent here? “Sam,” he said helplessly. Sam’s come was slicking down his thighs and he was covered in spider gunk and whatever else had been behind the mirror, but apparently they were doing this now. And he still couldn’t say it right: it was never Sam he didn’t want to see—it was himself, in Sam’s eyes. He cleared his throat. “Would it be better if you had a real life, a family that wasn’t just me, and we’d see each other Thanksgivings and hug each others’ kids? Yeah, there’s part of me that wants that. But I know it’s not happening, and the one thing—the _one_ thing—that gets me out of bed anyway is you.”

Sam didn’t say anything, but he’d taken on the hopeful air of a dog that senses dinner is about to be put on the table. Dean sighed and barely stopped himself from running his filthy hand through his hair. “Look, you find us a place to crash with a mirror that isn’t gonna kill us, I’ll show you. We can even film it.” Sam’s eyes glazed, even if Dean knew that any recording would have to go straight to the recycle bin. Dean cleared his throat. “Point being, I want you, I need you, three out of three and all that shit. So do you think you could get in the shower with me and jerk me off, because I am _nasty_ right now.”

“You’re nasty all the time,” Sam said, fondly, his voice thick with blessedly unshed tears. “Meat Loaf, Dean? Really?”

Dean flipped him off with one grimy finger and stomped over to the shower, grinning to himself when he heard Sam follow. The water wasn’t quite warm, but Sam was a furnace all on his own. He wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist, and even though it wasn’t a hand job Dean was perfectly happy to lean back into Sam as he started scrubbing himself.

Sam pushed his thumb into one of the bruises he’d made the night before. “I like being able to see that it really happened,” he said, barely audible over the sound of the water. “Sometimes I’m not sure if I imagined it all. I like looking at you and knowing.” 

Dean put his hand over Sam’s, pressing it down harder so that he could really feel the ache. “Yeah,” he said, letting Sam take more of his weight.

Like the motel, they were abandoned, but not by each other. It was a kind of freedom, when he ignored the knowledge that the world was about to go down the toilet once again, and that the reasons were at least Winchester-adjacent. He remembered Sam’s high school vocabulary flashcards: abandoned also meant wild, uncaring, living just for pleasure. Today, here, they were abandoned. 

There was nothing so wrong with each of them that the other wouldn’t stay.


End file.
